


The exclamation mark

by insensible



Series: If only, but also [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Airports, Arthur is furious, BAMF Arthur, BAMF Eames (Inception), Bad clients, Birdsong, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dream heist, Forgery, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Idaho, Inexplicably circular swimming pool, Knives, M/M, Pining Eames (Inception), Revenge, Sun Valley Resort, Vague mentions of sex but literally no porn in this whatsoever, Well maybe slightly more than canon-typical, gas-operated self-loading assault rifle, which surprised me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24864196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insensible/pseuds/insensible
Summary: A PASIV is worth, give or take, a million dollars, but stealing one is like stealing a Van Gogh. There’s not much you can do with it, once you have it, and the people who you took it from are going to be extremely pissed off. Eames has never seen Arthur truly angry before, and it’s an absolute revelation.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Series: If only, but also [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822282
Comments: 9
Kudos: 138





	The exclamation mark

Eames is thinking about Arthur.

Eames is thinking specifically of the time he told Arthur that he considered Arthur to be most purely and completely himself whenever he was examining the tie selection in an airport Dior concession. It was a mischievous observation, perhaps a little too close to the bone, and Arthur had given him a hard stare, and said, _not Dior, fuck you_.

Eames has also, on occasion, considered Arthur to be most purely and completely himself when he’s fussing over a PASIV. The first time he suspected Arthur might mean more to him than an occasional, delightful, professionally-unwise hookup was when he watched his long fingers take apart a second-generation model with solicitous care and realised that what he was feeling, looking at the PASIV, was an uncontrollable flood of jealousy. 

Sometimes Eames has thought Arthur is most purely himself when he’s kneeling in front of him. Though, he admits, he’s equally, perfectly Arthur when it’s the other way round. 

But all these, he knows, are only gestures toward what Arthur is.

Arthur, he knows, because he has seen it, is most absolutely and purely himself when he is _furious_ , wearing a six thousand dollar suit, and has someone else’s blood on his face.

*

It was their first job together. It was four years ago. Idaho. Christ, another century. Eames had been alley-catting fit to beat the band back then, and the first thing he thought when he met Arthur was _Oh Lord, that is a miraculous arse,_ a revelation quickly followed by a furious internal debate over the morality of making a pass at him. Probably not, he decided sadly. For professional reasons, of course. But also because Arthur looked so young he felt a pang of anticipatory guilt at the thought of corrupting him. He told Arthur this a long while later, and Arthur had laughed so hard Eames worried he might rupture.

Eames had been brought on board to forge the long-lost love of a mark so entirely without redeeming qualities that fucking him over felt a mild service to humanity. She was a steely blonde from Sheridan who favoured pink padded gilets and extremely high heels, and had a truly dirty laugh. Arthur had walked around him on a test level, looking him up and down, examining the details of Eames’ forge as dispassionately as if he were a counterfeit banknote, and Eames, of course, found this impossibly hot.

“Like what you see, sweetheart?” he breathed.

“I’m not the person you have to convince,” said Arthur.

*

The mark was not the only asshole on that job. The client was far fucking worse.McLure was an expansive Ketchumite, a paper baron with a vast collection of antique firearms, a penchant for big game hunting and for sitting with his knees spread so wide Eames wondered if he had sore balls. His presence worked on Eames’ soul like sandpaper.

Of course, McLure adored Eames. Eames was British and posh and wore _genu-ine Harris tweed_. McLure courted him like a minor royal, kept asking him if he knew various English aristocrats he’d met skiing here, all of whom Eames did indeed know, and all of whom he fervently wished he did not. 

McLure had an issue, however, with Arthur. The nature of this issue was for a while obscure, until a client progress meeting, back when Arthur allowed such things. It had taken place in the dispiriting surroundings of a conference room in the Sun Valley Resort, a space that McLure was using _gratis_ because the owner was a _personal friend_.

So there they all were: Eames, Arthur, their architect, a Texan called Hernandez who barely ever spoke, and their extractor, Carter, who was balding, languid, ex-USAF, a wearer of chinos and a moustache so exactly like Tom Skerrit’s in Top Gun that Eames suspected it was no accident. About six minutes into the meeting Eames knew it was largely pointless, was mostly an opportunity for McLure to hold court. The information they were being paid to extract related to forestry rights, which Eames thought amusingly provincial until he saw the financials, but McLure seemed to be talking an awful lot more about the record bull buffalo he’d brought down last month in Namibia than anything to do with trees.

When a nervous waiter had brought McLure the wrong—something? Eames can’t remember what; maybe the turkey in his club sandwich had been too thin—McLure had insulted him, watched him retreat back to the kitchen, roared with laughter, slapped the table and said something about _goddamned fags,_ and went on to suggest that the world would be better without them, and went on from there to suggest some not-very-creative ways to get rid of them all— _culling the herd_ was a phrase he actually used, along with name-checking Darwin—and he glanced at Arthur sidelong a few times as he spoke, and Eames found himself looking over the shiny tabletop at Arthur, and Arthur was looking right at Eames, both of them expressionless, and there passed between them a moment of pure and perfect accord.

“Closeted as all fuck. I think you _confuse_ him,” said Eames, thoughtfully, later.

“No. I don’t confuse him at all,” Arthur replied.

*

Thankfully the heist proceeded perfectly. They were working out of a suite on the fourth floor of the resort, overlooking the swimming pool “It’s perfectly _round_ , Arthur, why is it round?” and after waiting sufficient time for the compound in the complimentary turn-down chocolate to work its magic—the mark had the world’s sweetest tooth—Eames had slipped them into the suite next door.

The dream was one level: a romantic forest walk in the Sawtooth Mountains— _you gotta get the birdsong right—_ Hernandez had said, more than a few times, _I have tapes_ —and Eames obtained the physical location of the series of deeds so quickly there was no need to bring in Carter at all. It was embarrassingly easy. They left the mark fast asleep in his own bed, Arthur communicated the extracted information to McLure and picked up their pay, distributed it. Hernandez and Carter went their separate ways west that evening,Arthur was headed to Sacramento in the morning. Said he’d drive Eames, drop him off in Reno, if he really wanted to waste all the money he’d made. Said that personally he couldn’t wait to get out of there, that this resort was a heap of faux-Bavarian Nazi bullshit.

*

The text alert woke Eames at just before three am.The message was from Arthur, contained nothing but an exclamation mark, and Eames was dressed, holding his bags, and pumped on adrenalin before Arthur stalked in. He was _white_ with rage. “I have just,” Arthur said, “been visited by a bunch of assholes with AR-15s. They took the PASIV. Eames, you can handle yourself? You in on this?”

“Arthur, all I have on me is a biro…”

Arthur was carrying a black sports bag. There were zip-tie marks on his wrists. He hoist it a little higher. “ _SCAR-L_ , he says, _Mk16_. You’re familiar.”

Eames nodded. “Nice” he said, and meant it. “Expensive.”

“Nowhere near as much as this suit,” said Arthur, tightly.

The suit was dark grey, bespoke, and fucking beautiful. Only Arthur would decide to wear such a thing at a time like this, his only apparent concession to circumstances the lack of a matching tie. 

Their car was outside reception, and Eames pulled the rifle from the bag as soon as the door was closed. A little refamiliarisation wouldn't go amiss. Arthur obviously knew of his past—he’d be a bad point man if he didn't—and probably every detail that led to his dishonourable discharge—but even so, Eames was thrilled that Arthur had decided he was good for more than theft and forgery. Bless his dark little tactical heart.

 _“_ I’ve never worked for such an idiot,” Arthur hissed, the wheel running through his fingers at the end of a rapid turn. He drove beautifully, Eames noted, fluidly and aggressively, and something about sitting next to this newly-revealed Arthur while cradling a very lovely rifle made him a little dizzy.

“They didn’t even check for a tracker,” said Arthur, peering down at the screen tucked between seat and right thigh. “They’ve _still_ not checked for a tracker. They’re on 75, south. They’ll be heading to Friedman.” 

Eames thought Arthur was right on all counts. Friedman was most likely, and McLure had been impossibly, spectacularly stupid. A PASIV is worth, give or take, a million dollars, but stealing one is like stealing a Van Gogh. There’s not much you can do with it, once you have it, and the people who you took it from are going to be extremely pissed off.

It's the first time Eames sees Arthur angry, and it’s an absolute revelation.

*

There was a Beechcraft at Friedman, a Bonanza, props turning slowly, getting ready to go, and a black SUV parked up next to it, doors wide.

Arthur sighed. “Can you disable both vehicles, Mr Eames?”

Eames was on the ground in a second, praying he wasn’t too rusty. A few rounds wrecked the wheels of the SUV, a few more the blades. The pilot bailed, ran from the plane. Eames and Arthur were already crouched and moving, expecting return of fire, but the camo boys had started running too. They vanished into the darkness, and the way they were running didn’t suggest to Eames they were regrouping.

Arthur stopped. He looked incredibly surprised.

“I didn’t expect that,” he said.

Eames snickered. “Is it still there?” he said.

“Yeah.”

They waited, waited some more, walked back to the car, sneaked airside, Arthur in the passenger seat with the rifle, window open. He instructed Eames to drive up to the plane, swing right, give him six feet for cover. They drove.

 _Nothing_. Just a nighthawk calling, the hiss of crickets.

“Well,” Arthur said. He cracked the door. Still nothing _._ Bent low, he ran to the SUV, picked the PASIV gently from the rear footwell and brought it back to the car, looking murderous.

On the drive back, still looking murderous, Arthur opened his mouth, and Eames preempted him.

“Arthur, this is the most fun I’ve had in five years. Of course I’m coming with you.”

“Those assholes will need to work out a story. It'll take them a while. First light? He lives alone.”

“Perfect”

They found a quiet turn-in, catnapped in the car for a while and if Eames found himself staring at the angle of Arthur’s jaw while his face was turned away, if he found himself imagining what it would be like to set his teeth in that spot just below it, what that would taste like, what noises Arthur would make, well, he could tell himself, adrenalin makes fools of us all.

*

Eames was astonished McLure was at his sprawling ranch-style home, even more astonished that he opened the door, and utterly bewildered that he did so unarmed: western hospitality is a marvellous thing. So is a privileged man's expectation of safety when it’s so easily turned against him. _Christ_ , he thought. _He really is stupid._ He was wearing a scarlet robe and a pair of sheepskin slippers and an expression that Eames had seen a thousand times before. It was the _I don’t know what you’re talking about_ face, and seeing it again made him feel tired, and almost a little sorry for McLure.

Arthur was not sorry for him. “Good morning Mr McLure,” he said, and within three paces and one firm hand on his shoulder he’d turned McLure and was walking him down a corridor, McLure leaning oddly to the left— _knife_ , thought Eames, observing how all McLure was thinking about was putting distance between himself and the blade, rather than what he _should_ have been thinking about, which was to avoid going anywhere with this man. Eames kept a few paces behind in case of a break and when Arthur ushered McLure through a door, he raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

“Keep watch,” Arthur said. 

So that is what Eames did, eyes sharp, ears straining to pick up any sign of external threats. What was more interesting to hear was what might be going on behind the door. Soon the soft ticking of the grandfather clock at the end of the corridor was overlaid by McLure shouting, his words muffled, but clearly an expression of outraged denial.

Eames then heard something that might have been furniture hitting the floor, or McLure. He doubted it was Arthur. For a while there was silence, then came the unmistakeable sound of screams through duct tape. They continued for a while. _It sounds_ , Eames thought, _messy in there_. He licked a thumb, wiped a smear of gun oil from the back of one hand.

When the noise stopped, Eames decided it was time to check in. He pushed the door a crack, peeked through into what seemed to be a library. There were bookcases, a desk, an upended chair, a Turkish rug upon which McLure was sitting, arms folded tight around himself, rocking backwards and forwards and making low noises through the tape on his mouth.

Arthur was fine. Arthur had blood smeared bright down one cheek, and was fine. He was cleaning his knife against the back of a green velour armchair, and when he turned and saw Eames at the door, all the fury and focus within him were turned entirely on Eames for a slow and terrifying second, and Eames prickled with fear. Then Arthur grinned at him. That moment, Eames knows, was the precise moment he fell head over heels in lust with Arthur. His smile was devastating, life-changing, completely, utterly fucked-up, and he’s never going to be over it.

But then, Eames has always been a stupidly sentimental soul.

They got out of there fast, but once Eames settled down, he drove them sedately, a little hesitantly. His heart was strange with all sorts of newly shaped needs, and he suddenly hadno interest in Reno at all. What he needed to know—

“What did you do to him?” he asked, eventually.

“Cut his flexors and extensors, both hands,” says Arthur. “He’s not going to be big-game shooting for a while. Eames, look, I know it’s early, and I know I’m going to have to call this in, and I know we have a long drive, but do you think we could find some alcohol first? I could really do with a drink.”


End file.
